


In Good Company

by Lemon Drop (quercus)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-02-01
Updated: 2000-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/Lemon%20Drop





	In Good Company

There was a knock on the door.

Blair reluctantly looked up from his criminology text, pushed his glasses back in place, and stood, tugging at his baggy jeans. It was late, after eleven. Jim was working nights for a while, some deal he cut with another Major Crimes detective. He put his hands on his hips and leaned back, feeling with satisfaction his back muscles stretch.

Another knock.

"Coming!" he shouted, and headed toward the front door. He'd been studying all evening, hunched over the book, sitting lotus on his futon. He decided that he'd better do some stretching or a short meditation before going to bed.

The evenings were long without Jim home to keep him company. Watch a game, argue about it over dinner, wait impatiently for the bathroom after so many years alone, Blair was a little embarrassed by his pleasure in Jim's presence in his life. His mother had raised him to be self-sufficient, not to need anyone but to be comfortable with everyone. Suddenly, he'd spent three years in Jim's life and loft.. But how could three years pass so quickly? How had he not noticed his growing dependency? Affection? Love.

At that thought, Blair carried his mug into his bedroom, noticing the smoking candle. It must have blown out; maybe a draft when he'd opened the front door. Well, it was time to start unwinding. He put away his text and notes and pulled down the covers of his bed. Turning on some music, he spread a soft blanket on the floor and sat cross-legged, resting his hands on his knees. For an indeterminate time, he let his mind detach from the day.

Blair opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and climbed carefully into bed, juggling the cooling tea, and settled with his back against the wall, sipping with pleasure. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, resting for a moment. Loreena McKennitt's haunting soprano comforted him; he'd turned Jim onto her, too, and now they would sometimes listen to her tapes in the truck. He liked sharing his life with Jim, he thought again, and then realized his mind was running over familiar ground.

Another sip and he was finished. He slid the mug under the bed, mentally promising Jim to wash it in the morning, and turned off the light. The music kept him company as he drifted off to a light sleep, listening for Jim's return.

When he woke, it was quiet and very dark. Even the streetlight seemed to be out. There was a light wind, though; he could hear it tossing the tree tops outside the loft, and rattling the windows. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, and then decided he needed to pee before he could fall back asleep. When he stepped out of bed, though, his foot flipped over the mug. Shit. He tried to turn on his bedside light, but nothing happened. Maybe that's why it was so dark; maybe the electricity was out.

Where was a flashlight? No, the candle was right on his desk. He could find that in the dark. And he was sure he'd left matches next to it. Pushing the mug farther under the bed, he stood up and gingerly began walking toward his desk. Cautiously taking tiny steps, it seemed to take forever to reach the desk. Where the hell was it? Hands out in front of him, he shuffled forward, hoping not to bang into anything. He realized that he'd walked farther than his room was wide; he must have misjudged and walked right through the doorway into the living room. Except hadn't he shut the doors to his room?

Finally, he had to acknowledge to himself that he was lost, lost in his own home. He stopped, keeping his hands outstretched, and opened his eyes wide, trying to see *something*, hear something. But with the power out, there was no hum from the fridge or glow from the street. Not even the sound of a car rolling by.

How long should I stand here lost in space, he wondered, shaking his head in dismay and some embarrassment. Jim could see, even in this light. Or lack thereof.

Finally, he sat on the floor, crossing his legs under him. The room felt too large for him, as if when he'd left his bedroom he'd walked into another room entirely, something like a warehouse or theatre. He re-settled himself, bending his legs so his feet were flat on the floor and his knees tucked under his chin, and then wrapped his arms around his shins, hugging himself. He felt like an idiot; thirty years old and crouching on the floor.

This is a dream, he suddenly realized. A really vivid nightmare. If I can just say something out loud, I'll wake up. But the silence was so oppressive, he couldn't bring himself to break it. I'll wake up in a minute. I will. I'll just sit here until I do. I'll wake up in just a minute.

* * *

I didn't get home until nearly six, and I was exhausted. I figured I'd wake Sandburg and get him off to school early, so I could sleep without his morning ritual waking me. Besides, it'd be good to talk to him. It's kind of embarrassing, and I'd never tell him, but I miss him in the evenings. He's a talker, all right, but really interesting, and a better listener than anyone I've ever known. He can piss me off quicker than almost anyone, but he. He's part of my life, now.

But when I opened the door, I thought my heart would jump right out of my chest. Sandburg lay curled on his side on the floor, next to the couch. Leaving the door open behind me, I rushed to him. I could hear his heart, beating a little slowly, and his deep breaths. He sounded asleep, not unconscious. As gently as I could, I rolled him onto his back, cradling his head as I turned him. He snuffled and wiggled a bit and sighed heavily, then seemed to fall more deeply asleep.

From his side, I looked around. Everything was in place. His books and notes neatly stacked on the coffee table; the tv and stereo off; nothing overturned or broken. I could see into his bedroom. A mug sat under his bed, which was unmade and clearly slept in. I couldn't smell urine or feces or vomit; he had no fever.

Finally, I looked at him, cautiously running my hands over his body. Feeling a bit guilty, as if I were groping him, I patted his arms, chest, abdomen, hips, and legs, but he seemed fine. No broken bones, no twisted muscles. I crouched there a few seconds more, studying my friend's face. At last, I gently shook him and called his name. He moaned and wrinkled his face in dismay; I called him again.

"Jus' a minn," he mumbled, and I had to smile. He sounded the same every morning. I shook him once more, a little more forcefully.

"Come on, tough guy," I said softly. "Rise and shine."

He sighed deeply and opened his eyes. I had to smile down at him, and he smiled back automatically. Then his eyes popped wide open and he twisted up. "What the hell?"

I shook my head, still smiling ruefully. "I was hoping you could tell me. Did you have a bad dream?"

He stared at me a moment and then dropped his eyes. I recognized that gesture; he wasn't going to tell me anything. I patted his hip firmly and said, "Okay, keep your secrets. Fine by me if you start sleeping on the floor. Just stay out of my way when I'm heading towards the bathroom."

I started to stand but he flashed another look at me and I realized he wanted me to pry the information out of him. Well, shit. Kneeling again, I put my hands under his arms and hauled him to his feet. He's thirty years old, an intelligent, sophisticated adult, I reminded myself as I pushed him toward the bathroom. "Wash up, Junior. I'll fix coffee."

I was sipping coffee, leaning against the counter, when he finally emerged, showered, shaved, and dressed, but still looking a bit nonplused. I raised my eyebrows at him as he poured a cup for himself and came to stand next to me, imitating my posture.

When he'd gulped down half a cup, he sighed and looked up at me. "You want to know why I'm sleeping on the floor in the living room." I just stared down at him, a technique I'd discovered to be very effective with him. "Well, I, it's just. I had this dream, I thought it was a dream, but now I'm not sure. You know dreams often incorporate ambient noises into them, like when you dream the phone will ring and then the ringing phone wakes you up?"

He'd go on like this all day if I didn't slow him down. I set my coffee cup on the counter and turned sideways a bit. "Sandburg," I growled, and that set him off laughing. Guaranteed. I could frighten mobsters and defense attorneys with that voice, but Blair just laughs his head off. A grin started to tug at the corner of my own mouth; he saw that and laughed even harder.

"Okay, man, okay," he finally huffed out. "I know I'm talking too much and not saying anything."

"Umm-hmm."

"But it's embarrassing. It was just a dream and I thought I'd wake up. But I didn't."

"You need a keeper," I finally said, picking up my cup to rinse it out. "I'm going to bed. You go to school." I turned and gave him as stern a look as I could. "Call me next time this happens."

He just rolled his eyes and started rummaging in the refrigerator. "Yeah, yeah." I resisted the temptation to smack his ass as I walked past him to the bathroom.

* * *

Jim was cool about me sleeping on the floor, Blair thought as he twisted the rear view mirror in the Volvo; it kept slipping and he'd look up to see his shoulder instead of the road behind him. But what the fuck happened?

He knew it was just a dream, or that he'd gotten twisted around in the dark. That morning, he'd forgotten to check the clocks to see if the power had really been out, but shit, why was he obsessing over it? It wasn't anything, and he had to get to the academy early today; they were having donuts for one of the secretaries' birthday and she'd been treating him really decently. Not like some of the others. If he had donuts with everybody and she treated him well in front of them, maybe it would help.

Really, he knew, it wouldn't. But it was the sort of thing he had to do, the sort of thing he'd always done, having donuts with the secretaries. This is a new life, Sandburg, he told himself, sounding pompous in his own ears, but it wasn't. It was the same life in a new setting. He was still in Kansas.

It was a dream, he thought again, pulling into the parking lot and gathering his shit for the day. Emblematic of the changes in my life. I'm a little lost now. Just a metaphor.

He walked in with some of the other cadets, all of them almost ten years younger than he was, and some of them almost ten inches taller. They pretty much ignored him, but they weren't unkind, either. He just didn't *look* like the others. At the university, he'd looked like lots of other nerdy science types: cute in a flannel-and-reading-glasses way. Here, dressed in khakis and leather shoes identical to his classmates, with short hair and contacts, he stood out. Sort of defeated the concept behind dressing the same.

The donuts were fresh and the coffee not too nasty; the secretary smiled at him when she handed him a napkin. He thought briefly about asking her out, but realized instantly he couldn't do that, for dozens of reasons. The other people in the office noshing on sugary carbohydrates -- other secretaries, some administrators, two of his instructors, and a dozen or so students -- stood in the cramped quarters gossiping about other students, something on the news, a scandal in Vice. Blair had heard about the scandal two weeks earlier, from Jim, who still had friends in Vice and was majorly pissed at what had gone down and how IA had handled it, but he said nothing, just looked interested and astounded at the appropriate points in the story, some of which were different than what Jim had told him and, no doubt, incorrect. But he just nodded his head.

Finally in class, learning how to prepare paperwork to get a search warrant, he was able to relax. This really was the same, taking notes, asking questions, exactly the same as at the university. Everything was different, but nothing had changed.

* * *

I'm sick of sitting in my truck watching nothing happen. I wonder how many hours of my professional life have been spent doing exactly this. In the regular army, it was hurry up and wait. The Rangers were even worse in some ways: weeks and weeks of boredom and then a few minutes of heart-stopping terror, followed by anger or grief or, very occasionally, exhilaration. Peru that was just one long waiting period, a time so agonizing that I managed to put most of it out of my head, much to Blair's frustration. And now as a police officer, the same old-same old. Maybe that's all life is: waiting for some unknown end.

Loreena McKennitt sang the Wexford Carol to me while I sipped tepid coffee and waited. Sandburg had bought me that cd, and it had seen me through dozens of tiring hours of sitting. Sandburg was good for stuff like that: different music I'd never have found on my own; different foods and teas; even clothes. He had me wearing hemp. It smelled nice and didn't itch like wool. Plus he got such a kick out of seeing me wear it; he doesn't know I know that, but he can't hide that grin when I pull on the hemp sweater I bought at that harvest fair thingy we went to at his insistence.

I miss him. I'll be glad when he's through the academy and back at my side. For one thing, Simon will stop making me call in every thirty minutes, so he knows I haven't zoned, which is so fucking annoying. Like I need a six-foot-six babysitter. But Sandburg makes the time pass. We argue, he talks, I roll my eyes, we share hotdogs and coffee and donuts, though he pretends not to like them. Gotta practice for when I'm a real cop, he'll say, and take a big bite outta one.

What the hell was he doing on the floor last night? That really scared me, not that I'd admit it to him. Sleepwalking? Isn't that a sign of distress? Jesus. The academy. Maybe somebody's hassling him. Or maybe he regrets everything that happened. I hear him crying, sometimes, in the shower or in bed at night. Not as often anymore, but still. I know he misses the university and his friends and teachers. Not that they were much good as friends, if they'd believe that he'd could. That he'd lie. Like that.

Fuck.

I pulled out my cell phone and speed dialed the loft.

* * *

"Shit!" Blair almost knocked over his tea, the phone startled him so much. "Hellooooo."

"Sandburg. What're you doing up? You have school tomorrow."

"Hi, dad. Yeah, I know, I'm just finishing up." And he was, kind of.

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before. What time is it."

"Um, eleven. A little after."

"Yeah, like forty-five minutes after, you jerk. Rinse out your tea cup, brush your teeth, and go to bed."

"Jim, man, thanks for the advice, but I'm like *thirty* now and can manage this by myself."

"Yeah, and that's why you're sleepwalking."

Blair paused, wondering if Jim were right. After a few seconds, he said uncertainly, "Maybe." He glanced at his textbook; really, Jim was right. "Okay, man. I'm closing up shop."

"Good." Another pause. Blair didn't want to hang up; he missed his friend. He heard Jim sigh, and then, "Chief? Listen, if you, um. If there's a problem, you call me, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks." The two men sat quietly for a moment more, Blair listening to the music in Jim's truck. "Loreena McKennitt?"

"Yeah. It works."

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll wake you when I get in."

"Okay." And Blair pressed "off," staring at the phone. His eyes were burning and his bladder was full. Jim's right; time to stop this. It had been a busy day.

He woke from a sound sleep to the sound of knocking, no, *pounding* on the front door. "Yeah, yeah," he shouted, or tried to, but he was so sleepy, plus wrapped in several layers of sheets and blankets and his great-aunt's comforter his mom gave him when he was eight. He stretched and crawled out of bed, pulling on his worn robe.

The knocking stopped by the time he reached the door. He flipped on the light over the kitchen table, and put his head next to door, listening. Nothing. "Who's there?"

Nothing. Shit. He stood there for long minutes, listening intently. Just as he turned away, hand slipping off the door knob, the door vibrated under a sudden pounding.

"Yeah!" he shouted, angry and afraid at the same time, and jerked open the door.

There was no one there. And then the lights went out.

* * *

Ah, fuck it, what the shit I can't believe this. I pounded up the hallway to the open door. Jesus. Blair was lying on the floor again, just inside the doorway, apparently asleep, his old green bathroom untied and open, his feet bare.

Once again, I looked around the loft, but everything seemed to be in place. I knelt next to him and put my hand on his forehead. Goddammit.

"Blair," I said, and slipped my hand down to cup his cheek and chin, then gently shook him. "Blair."

He moaned and sighed and stretched, rubbing his face into my hand. To my surprise, he twisted his head and kissed my palm. Dreaming of some babe, no doubt. Then he opened his eyes.

"Oh, shit."

"No shit, Darwin. Back on the floor again." I helped him sit up and he tucked the robe around him modestly while I shut and locked the door. He looked up at me, puzzled and maybe a little afraid I think I can smell fear on him. Something. Concern, maybe. I sat on the floor next to him, even though I'm too old and not stretchy enough.

"Jim, something's happening."

"I figured."

"The last two nights, there's been a knock at the door "

"But no one's there." He stared at me, eyes wide with disbelief or shock. "Come on, Sandburg. It's an urban legend. I'm making a joke."

"But it isn't a joke. I'm not sleeping on the floor for a punch line, Jim." Asshole, I heard him say in his mind.

I sighed and stood up, stretching my back. "I told you to call me," I reminded him, and then offered him a hand to pull him up. "Don't open the fucking door."

He stalked off to the bathroom; I'd offended him. Fuck. I'm trying to be cool and calm and understanding, but apparently I'm being a jerk. Well, being understanding isn't easy for me. I haven't had a lotta practice at being understanding. Actually, I'm fucking freaking out and if I find out who's disturbing my roomie's sleep I'll pound them, which is a pretty adolescent reaction, I know. But this is pissing me off.

When Blair got out of the bathroom, he'd calmed down, and I'd decided to try to manifest my calm understanding in a different way. Not so stoic this time.

"Listen, Blair."

"Blair," he repeated, and rolled his eyes.

"Listen, *Hairboy*," I started again, and that made him laugh, which is good, right? "I'm serious. This is weird. Don't answer the door. Call me. If you have to answer the door, answer it while I'm on the line, okay?"

He studied me for a long moment, then turned to get coffee started, which if I hadn't been freaked out, I'd've had dripping by now. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Not knowing what else to do, I clapped him on the back, feeling stupid, and headed upstairs to change into sweats. He laughed a little, but it didn't sound mean.

****

Twisting the rear view mirror up again, Blair sighed and promised himself to get it fixed this weekend. Buy a new one; they couldn't cost that much, could they?

What the fuck was going on, anyway, he thought angrily. Maybe nobody was knocking on the door at all; it was just a dream. Maybe Jim was right and I'm just sleepwalking.

The first class that morning was basic grammar and Blair excused himself to daydream. He started a list of things to research as soon as he was free: Sleepwalking. Urban legends. Dreams. Jesus, it was another dissertation.

Fuck that, he thought, and started listening to a garbled explanation of comma splices.

When class was over, Blair glanced down at his list again. I'm not crazy, it read, and Blair suddenly knew with absolutely certainty that he was, because he sure as hell didn't remember writing those words. Below them, also in his own strong, rather spiky handwriting, were the words: Don't look over your shoulder, they might be gaining on you.

That's a comma splice, he thought idly, while his heart kicked into high gear and he started to sweat in the air conditioned classroom.

****

"Jim? Hey, Jim, pick up, okay? I'm sorry to wake you, but it's important, okay? Jim?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. What's wrong?" Jim's sleepy voice never sounded more comforting.

"Jim, Jesus, I think I'm flipping out, you know, a few toys short of a Happy Meal, a few cards short of a deck, a few floors short of a high-rise . . "

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Jim's voice sounded a lot less sleepy and a lot more angry now.

Blair sighed, taking in as much oxygen as he could, trying to relax. "Jim, I'm really scared. I want you to wake up, because I'm coming home. I told my instructors I'm sick, which is probably true, and then I want to talk to you."

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Jim said, "Okay, Blair. I'm getting up. Do you want me to come get you?"

He rolled his head back in relief; Jim sounded normal, well, better than normal, he sounded helpful. "No, I can get home. Just be there."

"Okay." Another pause, and then almost shyly, Jim added, "Drive carefully."

"Okay."

Well, that went well, Blair thought, trying to anticipate what Jim would do when he showed him the list from class. He was pretty sure he wouldn't have him committed, at least not right away. If Jim were writing secret notes to himself, Blair would be really understanding and would spend a lot of time analyzing the meaning behind the notes and the fact that he'd written them and of course the fact that he couldn't remember writing them. But since he, Blair, had written the notes, he didn't want to discuss any of that. Basically, he wanted Jim to say: Oh hell, Sandburg, people do that all the time. What's your problem? Forget it. Let's have a sandwich.

Blair was pretty sure Jim wouldn't say that.

Jim didn't say that, when Blair silently held out the list of things to do. He studied it carefully, then took it over to a lamp and studied it under the brighter light. He sniffed it and ran his fingers over it. He stared at it for a long time before looking up at Blair.

"You wrote this."

Blair nodded, not trusting his voice.

"You don't remember writing it."

Blair felt tears well up in his eyes. This was some vengeful punishment for everything that had happened. This was a nightmare; he was still asleep. This was an alternate universe he'd wandered into. This was hell.

Jim studied Blair for a long moment and then looked back at the list. He opened Blair's notebook to several pages, studying his handwriting and comparing it to the list. Finally, he took Blair by the upper arm and walked him to the couch and gently pushed him down, seating himself next to Blair.

Blair thought: If I had a dad, I'd want him to be like Jim right now. Quiet and comforting.

Jim said, "I think you're right to be worried, Blair. I think this means you're overtired and overstressed. I'm going to call Simon and tell him I can't work nights for a while." Blair started to argue, but Jim just put up his big hand and he shut up. "I'll stay here tonight and make sure you get a good night's sleep. I'll stay on the couch."

Blair nodded again, slumping against the back of the couch. "Shit," he said, his voice thin and husky.

"Yeah. But it's okay, you know?"

"How is it okay, Jim? Exactly how is automatic writing okay? I've got some kind of dissociative disorder and you tell me it's okay?"

Jim put out his hand again, and again Blair fell silent. This time rather resentfully.

"You want my advice?" Blair nodded ruefully. "My advice is you should shut up more often; it looks good on you."

"You are such a dick."

"Yeah, but I'm a *big* dick. You want some soup?"

"Tomato?"

"Comfort food."

And that was pretty much it for the day. Blair lay around the apartment, reading and drinking all the soothing blends of tea he had in the cupboards, while Jim caught up on his sleep, jerking awake periodically to study Blair drowsily, then falling back into the couch, snuffling noisily from the dust. Blair found the noises comforting and endearing. Such a big tough cop and so fucking *sweet*.

If I'm crazy, Blair thought late that afternoon, rubbing his glasses clean with the tail of his flannel overshirt, then at least I get to be crazy in good company.

* * *

Blair listened to Jim brushing his teeth. He was sitting on his bed, looking out the french doors at where Jim had made up the couch with sheets and a blanket. He felt awkward, that Jim had decided not to go to work on his behalf, that Jim was going to watch over him.

He also felt enormously comforted that someone would do something like that for him. Who else on the earth would make this gesture? Well, Naomi, yeah, but she kinda had to. Only Jim would do it of his own free will.

Blair's mouth twisted in some dismay at the thought. He wasn't sure what he was feeling. Awkward, comforted, weird, a little worried that he was losing it, bored with it already, whatever it was.

He heard Jim spit and rinse his mouth, and then he emerged from the bathroom. He was wearing baggy sweats, a tee shirt, and socks with a hole in the left big toe. Blair thought he was the most beautiful human being he'd ever seen.

Jim looked around and saw Blair sitting on his bed and came to stand in the doorway, leaning against the door frame. "Hey."

"Hey."

"Going to bed?"

"Guess." After a few seconds, Blair said, "Feel stupid. With you down here. I'm sorry."

Jim shrugged, his massive shoulders and ropy upper arms rising gracefully. "S'okay. At least you'll get a good night's sleep, and I can catch up on my reading." Jim's Kerouac anthology was splayed open on the coffee table, next to a glass of water. "It's okay," he said again, and studied Blair carefully, who blushed.

"Yeah. Thanks." He rolled into his bed, jerking the covers up around him. Then he had to sit up again to turn out the light. He saw Jim's mouth curl into a smile just before disappearing into the sudden dark and re-appearing only as a silhouette against the brighter living room. "Night."

"Night, buddy."

Buddy, Blair thought, but rolled over to face the wall and shut his eyes resolutely.

* * *

My eyes were closing in spite of the nap I'd had earlier. The loft was quiet; I could hear Blair breathing softly in his sleep, an occasional car shushing by in the wet streets, a low humming from the fridge. I snuggled deeper into the couch and let my eyes drift until the phone rang. Shit.

"Um, is Professor Sandburg there?" a young female voice asked. Blair hadn't been Professor Sandburg for some months now; was this a joke?

"Who's calling?"

"Um, I was a student of his a couple semesters ago, no, three semesters ago, and he was really nice to me and I needed some help and I remembered that he was working with the police and I thought maybe he could give me some advice." She started to lose volume at the end of her rushed speech, and I heard her take a deep breath.

"Look, Mr. Sandburg doesn't work for the university anymore," I began, but she interrupted.

"Um, I know, but he was really nice and I thought, um, well, I never thought he was a *liar*, you know? So I thought maybe he could still help."

Now I sighed heavily. I can't stand women with little tiny voices like children; grow up! I wanted to yell. "What's your name?"

"Ruth. Abramson. Ruth Abramson. Are you Jim?" I was so surprised, I couldn't respond. "He told us about his cop friend Jim. Are you a policeman?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm Jim and I'm a cop. Listen, Ms. Abramson, Blair's sleeping right now and I don't want to wake him. It's late and he has class tomorrow. Can I help you?"

She sighed again, a thin sound in my ear, and I moved the phone so I could sit on the couch while she talked. "Yes, please. Don't wake him. It's just that he was . . ."

"Yes, I know, really nice to you. What's the problem? Specifically?" I added hastily.

Her voice, as impossible as it seemed, grew even thinner and more high pitched. "Jim, I'm so scared. It's my roommate's boyfriend. He looks at me really mean, and says things, and three times now he's *touched* me." Her voice broke at that point, and I could hear her whuffing for breath as she tried not to cry, and her heart racing wildly.

"Ms. Abramson, where are you? Right now?"

"At home."

"Where's your roommate?"

"He went home to see his parents; his dad is really sick, probably dying," a little sob, "and Terry's really scaring me. He knows where I live and he knows where I work and he knows where I go to school."

"What's Terry's full name?"

"Terence Etheridge." I had her spell the name, and got her number, promising to call her back as soon as I had Etheridge's name run through the computer at work. I called Major Crimes; Tobin answered, and within a few minutes I had an answer. She answered on the first ring

"Ms. Abramson?"

"Please call me Ruthie," she said shyly.

"Ruthie, is there someplace you can stay until you can find a new place to live?"

"Why? Yeah, I can stay with my sister for a few nights. Should I?"

"Yes. I'm going to come over there right now and make sure you get there safely. Pack some things, and don't answer the door unless it's me."

"How will I know if it's you?"

Rolling my eyes at the ceiling, I said, "Look through a window. I'll hold my badge up so you can see it."

"Okay."

I got her address and directions, then checked on Sandburg. Still out like a light. I hated like hell to leave him, but I didn't want to wake him, either. I wrote a quick note and stuck it on the inside of the doors to his room, then shut them firmly. In light of what had happened the previous night, I made certain all the exterior doors were locked and bolted. I even, with some embarrassment, put a chair in front of the front door, dragging it behind me as I closed the door, so if anyone tried to open it from the outside, they'd knock over the chair and cause a ruckus.

Then I ran to the truck and Ms. Abramson.

Who, I discovered forty minutes later, either didn't exist or was a terrible liar. There was no apartment at the address she'd given me. Down the street, at a gas station's pay phone, I called her back, but this time got only a sharp whine and a nasal voice telling me that that number was not in service. Enraged, I started to drive to Etheridge's home; he, at least, was real and real trouble, from what Tobin had said. But then I spun the truck around, my arm automatically reaching out to hold Sandburg back from the windshield, and headed back to the loft.

Just fuck, Ellison, I told myself, furious and a bit frightened. Fucking hell.

* * *

It was another dream, Blair decided, basing his decision on the underwater-like silence and slow motion effects he was experiencing. For the third night, he'd been woken by someone or something pounding violently on the loft's front door. Again, the doors to his room stood open, though he carried a memory of Jim shutting them. He half fell out of his bed, banging a knee sharply on the floor as he caught himself, and then staggered into the living room.

The light at the end of the couch was on; Jim's book lay face up, a slip of paper marking his place; the couch was a nest of sheets and blankets and pillows in which Jim cuddled, mouth slightly open as he slept.

Jim, Blair tried to call, but again he was silenced. He watched Jim breathe regularly, and as he did he felt a wave of affection roll through him, a breaker of love and respect. Jim looked tired and every one of his years as he slept on the uncomfortable couch to protect Blair, although, Blair thought ruefully, he wasn't doing a very good job of that.

Again the door practically vibrated under the onslaught, and again, Blair drew near it. Slowly the bolt unlatched itself and the lock in the handle rotated ninety degrees to the vertical, and then, with a soft popping noise, as if there were a difference in air pressure between the loft and the hall way, the door swung open.

No one there. Now why isn't that a surprise. Blair peeked cautiously out, but there was no one there.

When he turned, though, Jim was missing.

***

As I stood in Blair's doorway staring at his empty bed, I tried to think logically. I'm a detective, I reminded myself. This is what I do for a living: figure things out. The front door had been locked; the chair still in place. All the exterior doors were still locked. Only Blair was missing.

Feeling ridiculous, I checked in the bathroom, behind the shower curtain, upstairs in my bedroom, out on the fire escape, in all the closets, even where the water heater was stored. Yup. He was missing.

I sat on his bed; it still felt warm from his body. I lay down on my side, looking out the french doors to the living room. The bed smelled deeply of Blair, his many scents. A wave of affection for him rolled through me and I just wanted him back. Back and safe. I closed my eyes.

I think I drifted off to sleep.

I saw Blair, sitting at the kitchen table, glasses on his nose, hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was reading, and had a pen in his right hand, his middle finger stained with ink. I could hear him breathing lightly, calmly, as he studied. He flipped a page and continued to read. A sweating soft drink can stood near his hand.

He leaned back in the chair, stretching his back muscles, and took a deep breath. Then he turned and looked at me. He smiled. I took a step toward him and fell out of Sandburg's bed.

The apartment was empty.

* * *

So, it was a dream, Blair thought as he stood staring at the empty couch. He knew Jim was there, he *knew* it. Hesitantly, he shut and locked the door behind him and then walked to the couch. Putting the palm of his hand down, he thought he could detect the warmth of Jim's body. But who knew he certainly wasn't a sentinel.

He walked around the couch and sat down in the middle of Jim's bedding. Cautiously, he put his feet up and tucked them under the wadded up covers. He picked up the book and opened it at the slip of paper; Jim was reading an excerpt from Visions of Cody, Kerouac's lovely and loved exploration of his friend Neal Cassady. He fell into the prose, carried by the long sweeping sentences, caught up in the almost sexual delight Kerouac took in his friend.

When he looked up from the book, Jim was standing in the doorway of Blair's bedroom, looking at Blair with a soft, mysterious smile. Blair felt a blush heat his entire body, and he lowered the book, face down, onto the couch next to him. He smiled back at Jim, charmed by his friend's reticence. His heart began to speed up and he dropped his eyes, embarrassed to know that Jim could hear and probably smell his excitement and pleasure. Then he took his courage in both hands and lifted his eyes again. Finding Jim still smiling at him, arms crossed as he lounged against the doorframe, Blair stood up and fell off the couch, where he had evidently fallen asleep. The book slipped from the couch onto his shoulder and then hit the floor, losing Jim's place.

Well, shit.

* * *

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't fucking believe it. I *know* I'd searched the entire apartment, from top to bottom, practically peeking inside the cupboards, but there was Sandburg, sleeping the sleep of the just in his cozy lumpy futon. For god's sake, how had he done that?

I was pissed, yes, but also relieved. This weird shit was getting to me, now. First he has nightmares, then automatic writing, then mysterious people call me out on phony errands, and -- well, I don't know. Then I start hallucinating. Shit, maybe I'd never left the loft? I don't know.

I studied him a few minutes longer, sorely tempted to kneel by his bedside and put my head on his pillow, where I could smell him. Somehow I trust smell more than any other of my senses; I guess it's gone whacky on me fewer times than any of the others. But I resisted, just stood there and stared. I scratched the back of my neck and then returned to the couch.

My book had fallen off and was lying on the floor. Shit, I'd lost my place. Somewhere in the excerpt from Visions of Cody. I smoothed the crumpled pages and laid it on the coffee table. Time for a piss and then back to bed.

* * *

"Hmmph," Blair said, pushing his hair back. It had grown out long enough to get tangled, and after his disturbed sleep, he'd tangled it good. His eyes were still half-closed with sleep. Jim was up and showering; the squeal of water in the pipes had woken Blair. He stretched and rolled out of bed, heading toward the coffee he smelled dripping in the kitchen.

Another weird night, he thought, adding milk and sugar to his mug. He heard the shower shut off, and poured Jim a mug, too, adding milk till it was the color Jim liked. He carried it, along with his own coffee, and knocked on the bathroom door. Jim opened it promptly, looking a lot more awake than Blair felt, and took the coffee equally promptly. "Thank you, Chief," he said with heartfelt gratitude and took a deep drink before setting the mug on the counter next to his razor and can of shaving gel. "You get points in heaven for this."

Blair just nodded and wandered toward his own room, kicking at the bedclothes draped onto the floor, looking for his blue jeans. "Clean that up!" Jim shouted; he'd probably figured out what Blair was doing by listening to him, shit, that pissed him off; living with a sentinel had some definite drawbacks.

In a few moments, his head deep in his closet, he heard Jim come into his room. "Sandburg."

"Yeah," he said ungraciously, looking for a favorite sweater.

"Sandburg, get your head out of there and talk to me."

"Help me find that green sweater and I will."

"It's in the dirty clothes."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. Now get out here."

Dragging his feet in what he hoped was an annoying fashion, Blair complied. He pushed past Jim and sat on the couch, now denuded of the sheets and blankets of the prior night. Jim sat in Blair's yellow chair and studied him. Finally, he said, "What the hell is going on?"

Blair shook his head, wishing he still had his long hair to hide his face and confusion. Jim lifted an eyebrow; Blair rolled his eyes. Jim sipped his coffee.

"I don't know, okay? I'm, like, totally freaked about this situation. I think the only logical conclusion is that I've had a psychotic break. Where were you last night, anyway?"

Jim looked uncomfortable. "I, um, you had a phone call. From someone who said they were Ruth Abramson."

"You're kidding? What did she want?"

"Well, I don't know that it was her. She said her roommate's boyfriend was scaring her, some guy named Terence Etheridge. She wanted you to, I don't know, help her. Advise her."

"Ruth? But that doesn't make any sense. Ruthie's, like, a hundred years old. Why would she be scared of her roommate? She lives in Cascade Beatitudes."

"That old folks' home?"

"Yeah, the super expensive one."

"Ruth Abramson is not a former student of yours."

Blair's eyes widened; he finally looked really awake. "No, Jim, Ruthie is the retired secretary from the anthropology department at Rainier. I've known her since I first got to Rainier, Jesus, that's fourteen years ago. Why?"

Jim sighed. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Just that somebody called and got me out of the apartment. When I got back, you were gone."

Blair studied Jim carefully, his mobile face for once quiet. After a long pause, he said, "I was gone."

"Yeah. I looked in your bedroom, but you weren't there. I searched the loft, but you just weren't here."

"Okay. But when I woke up, you were gone."

"That makes sense. I *was* gone. But you stayed here?"

Blair nodded. "Okay. Let's think this through rationally, step by step. Maybe we should write out a timeline . . . "

"No, we shouldn't." Jim stood up. "I'm going to work. I'm going to look up this Terence Etheridge and figure out what his connection to you might be."

"I can tell you that. He was this jerk who plagiarized a paper in one of my classes, uh, Anthro 101. What a liar! I actually found the book he stole his paper from and showed it to him, and he *still* denied plagiarizing it. He even told me the book was listed in his bibliography, when I was holding the bibliography out for him to see, and the book wasn't there. Not that that would excuse plagiarizing from it. Anyway, I failed him for the course. He didn't like that."

"He has a record. He was convicted of purse snatching a couple years ago, and picked up on a d-and-d six months ago."

"I don't get it. Who would tell you that Ruthie was being bothered by Etheridge? And why?"

"Is it too early for you? To get me out of the apartment."

"To what end?" Blair said, getting testy. Why did so many conversations with Jim end up in a verbal tug of war?

"I don't know. To piss me off, for one thing. To hurt you. Get back at you. Maybe he read about the, uh, you know . . . " Jim's voice trailed off the way it always did when he needed to refer to Blair's refutation of his dissertation. Jim stood irresolute for a moment or two more, and then went upstairs to dress. Blair's eyes followed him, curious, a little cross, and a tiny bit scared. Then he heaved himself to his feet and went to his own bedroom to dress; he had to go to school today.

* * *

Simon said, "Jesus the fuck Christ, Ellison, just when I think you're off the deep end, here you go even deeper."

Actually, he didn't say that at all, but I'm pretty sure he thought it. He just looked at me and rolled his pen in his fingers. Then he dropped it and sat down steepling his fingers together, staring steadily at me. I continued to stand almost at attention.

Finally, Simon sighed. "All right. God knows you deserve a few days off. I was just kinda hoping we could go fishing or something."

I smiled and relaxed my posture enough to put a hand on Simon's desk. "We will. Set a date; I'll be there. But I just need to get to the bottom of this. I'll hang with Sandburg for the next few days, figure out what's going on. He thinks he's going crazy --"

"He is."

"-- and I'm starting to wonder about me. Thanks, Simon." Simon flipped his hand at me, a gesture I took to mean you're welcome, now get outta here. I obeyed promptly.

Nodding goodbye to my co-workers in Major Crimes, I headed back downstairs to the parking garage, wondering how to approach this problem. I decided to drive to the academy and meet Blair for lunch. If Blair didn't object too strenuously, I might even get permission from the commandant to sit in his classes this week. But the thought of how Blair would look at me if I made such a suggestion made me rapidly reassess that idea. I decided I'd meet Blair for lunch and then again when classes were out. I'd follow him home, make sure nothing happened, and then stick to his side like the proverbial thorn.

It could be fun.

* * *

Blair stared with horror at the three words scratched into his locker at the academy. Go home faggot. Well, that was succinct and to the point. Missing a comma, but the meaning was still clear. They hadn't been there this morning, so someone had to have done it in the last two hours. Shit. Now he'd have to report it, there'd be an investigation, people would notice him, remember who he was and what he'd done, oh just *shit*. He banged on the locker.

"Whoa-ho, Sandburg. What've you been doing in your spare time?" Whittaker, a tall red-haired guy with the locker next to his asked him.

Blair shook his head. "Studying and then studying some more. What've you been doing?" He peered up into Whittaker's freckled face, which frowned back at him.

"Hey, what, are you a cop?" Ha ha, Blair thought sourly. "You doing an investigation? Besides, you're not a faggot; you're a cheat, right?"

"Right." Whittaker hurried off with an armload of books, leaving Blair alone in the locker room, wondering if someone was going to pants him now. He banged the locker a second time, and said, "Shit!"

This like *so* sucked. He was an admitted cheat; even with his hair cut off and his new preppy clothes, he apparently still looked like a faggot; and somebody or something was haunting his and Jim's dreams. This just, well, sucked. Like a hoover. More like one of those wet-and-dry vacs. Or the industrial ones at the self-help car wash.

Blair's meditations on sucking machines was interrupted by the realization that he still had to get to class, and then had to report the vandalism. He grabbed the notebook he'd come for, slammed the locker shut, and hurried off.

What a fucking week this had been. And it was only Thursday.

* * *

By the time Jim showed up at the academy with take-out sandwiches from Blair's favorite deli (chicken breast with avocado and salsa on sour dough, with a bowl of spicy lentil soup), Blair was waiting to enter the fourth administrator's office that morning, trying to report what had happened to his locker. He stood in the hallway, disconsolately kicking at the floor, while the janitors, security, and several officials traipsed down to the locker room and back. He supposed they'd take fingerprints, but what would that prove? I bet nobody vandalized Jim's locker when he was at the academy.

At that thought, he heard Jim's voice asking where he could find Cadet Blair Sandburg. Oh, the day just keeps improving. And then there Jim was, his face blank with shock as he rushed toward Blair, big-brotherly concern erupting out of him like Mount Saint Helens had when Blair was ten years old.

Jim took Blair by the elbow and leaned his considerable height down to speak to him. "Chief, are you okay?" The tone of his voice was intimate, and Blair felt his bad mood begin to dissipate. He nodded, oddly comforted by the presence of his friend. "I heard what they did. Any ideas who?"

"No. No one's done anything to make me think that they. They hated me." Blair's throat closed up on him as he remembered other times in his life when people *had* hated him. For being Jewish. For being smart. For having long hair and earrings. For any conceivable reason and a few inconceivable. But in this place -- it didn't seem possible. Here he was mostly, and rather gently, ignored.

Jim tugged at him and he began to follow. They ended up at the truck, where Jim had bags of food for him. Blair was rendered speechless by his gesture, especially coming on this day. So okay, there was one person in his corner. Besides his mom, of course. But that made a big difference.

"Thank you," he whispered and popped open the container of soup.

****

Sandburg didn't say much when I told him I was taking the rest of the week off to hang with him. I don't know if that's because he was mad but knew he couldn't change my mind; because he was happy but didn't want me to know that and possibly think it a sign of weakness; or if he just didn't care. Well, whatever; I had made my bed and now I was going to lie down in it.

So I did stay with him in classes. At first I tried to sit in the last row, but he caught me and pulled me up front with him. "Straight A students tend to sit in the front row," he whispered to me as we settled in immediately below the instructor's nose. The instructor was an acquaintance and he nodded cheerfully at me, eyeing Sandburg before starting class. That was pretty much the pattern I found in the next two days; Sandburg always got a look. The look. I wondered if it was because I was with him, or if he always got it.

It turned out to be kinda fun. I knew a lot of the instructors, at least by name or face, and was happy to listen to the most recent information in the classes. Some were still incredibly boring, some entertaining, a few genuinely useful. I realized that Sandburg knew most of this stuff already. The writing classes were ridiculously easy for someone who'd already been published many times, but he was polite and cheerful.. Procedure -- well, I knew I'd be following the book, at least until he mellowed out a bit. Firearms -- we'd been practicing for some time at the range, so he was more comfortable than his mom would ever have wanted him to be. He wasn't bad, either; as in all things, he just naturally did well.

I did notice that he wasn't his usual convivial self. In only two days, I couldn't tell if this was because I was there, or if he had withdrawn somewhat. I thought the latter, though. At the university or station, if he'd been quiet and separate, people would be worried about him, rushing up to him to see if he was okay. Here, he just got some nods, an occasional hello, and pretty much left alone. That made me sad. I discovered I was putting my hand on his back or shoulder or elbow a lot more by the end of the first afternoon. By Friday afternoon, I had to keep myself from draping an arm across his shoulders.

That impulse scared me.

Thursday night -- no problem. We both slept downstairs, he in his bed and me on the couch. No phone calls, no knocking, no midnight disturbances. He was quiet at home, too, and I let him be. I thought maybe he was uncomfortable with me seeing him at the academy. But I watched him sleep and wondered about who he was becoming, and why.

Friday night was a different story. Simon had invited us out and we met at Bridgid's Place, a noisy and smoky bar that served good greasy food. I had to dial my hearing down repeatedly, as well as my sense of smell. Sandburg actually smoked one of Simon's cigars, though, apparently enjoying one of the few places in Cascade where you could smoke indoors. The sight of him sucking on that stogie was funny enough to keep me from complaining, although I planned to do plenty at home.

Simon is, as Sandburg would say, a cool guy. He's adapted to my senses, to Sandburg's presence; he'd even made all the arrangements to get Sandburg on the force. He's a good friend, and I had a good time that night, throwing back a few beers, looking at the more questionable ladies, and eating a quantity and quality of food that I knew would have me chowing down Tums all evening. We did roust a couple clearly underage students from the bar, but before they'd gotten a drink, so we concluded that business with only a glare at the bartender.

Out in the fresh air, we walked Simon to his expensive car and said good night and thank you. Sandburg was laughing his ass off; after being quiet all week, he'd finally returned to the persona I was most comfortable with, the noisy energetic motor-mouth with a wit like a firecracker. With a last Huggy Bear comment, we waved Simon off, and I finally succumbed to the urge to wrap my arm around Sandburg as we wandered to the truck.

He cuddled right up to me, an arm around my waist, and I relaxed into him, thinking that so little beer could sure get to me these days. He smelled like cigar smoke and sweat, so when we got home I pushed him directly into the bathroom. He turned at the door to smile at me; for a minute, I saw him with that long curly hair, the two silver rings glinting at his ear, and then he disappeared into the new version of Sandburg, Cadet Sandburg, soon-to-be Detective Sandburg, the quiet serious guy. The guy who didn't bop to tribal music, who didn't glue himself to every pretty girl, who didn't launch into ethnographic descriptions of parallels between the Yanomamo and modern-day police rituals.

Then the door shut, and I was left alone.

By the time I'd showered and we'd shared heartburn meds, I knew this would be another evening of weird shit. It was as though the air had gotten thicker. I was moving more and more slowly until I had to sit on the couch. I looked at Sandburg. He was wrapped in that ratty robe again; I promised myself to buy him a new one soon. Seated at the kitchen table, a glass of water by his elbow, he was reading something. My Kerouac anthology. He was rolling a pen between the fingers of his right hand.

"Wait," I tried to say, but I'd been silenced again. The weight of the air was oppressive, I lay back against the couch and waited. Everything was just so hard.

* * *

"Jim," Blair tried to say, but realized he was caught once more in whatever weird shit had been happening this week. He slowly turned in his chair and saw Jim on the couch, zeed out and snoring softly. Once again, he was left alone to face whatever this was.

The pounding began. He swiveled his head to look at the door, expecting it to be bowing inwards from the force of the blows. Not even the poster on it shivered, though. He put his hands to his ears against the noise.

Not this time, he thought grimly, and staggered to his feet. This time he went to the couch and knelt by Jim's face. He rested his head against Jim's shoulder; Jim's arm seemed to automatically pull around him until their heads were together. Blair scooted up against the couch until he was seated more comfortably and settled down. Whatever was going to happen tonight would happen without his assistance.

It seemed impossible in the midst of all that noise, but Blair drifted to sleep, waking only when he was chilled, finding himself stretched out on the floor again, this time under the coffee table. He felt frozen, and cautiously crawled out to peer around the loft.

"Jim," he whispered, and shook Jim firmly, who snorted and whuffed awake.

"What? Shit, it happened again." Jim sat up so fast he nearly hit Blair in the head; he put his hand on Blair's head comfortingly, but continued to scan the loft. "Nothing," he said with confidence.

Blair shivered, and Jim brought his attention back to his friend on the floor. "Jesus, Sandburg, Get up here," and he pulled him onto the couch and draped the sheet and blanket around him.

"Well, that was interesting."

"What?"

"What what? You know, the knocking, the slow-mo effects, you sleeping through it."

"What?"

"What what?"

"Jesus, Sandburg, what the hell are you talking about?"

Blair stared at him in disbelief. "Why do you think I was on the floor?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get *on* with this, okay? What the fuck happened?"

"You asleep, me awake, something knocking on the door. But *this* time, I stayed in the truck. Metaphorically speaking. I didn't answer the door, I, um, went to you." This last said quickly and softly; Blair realized how it would sound.

"You came to me."

"Yup. It worked, too."

The two men sat quietly for a few minutes. Blair twisted the sheet around him, tucking his feet under it. Jim sighed and said, " Okay. It worked. But we still don't know what's going on. Wait, you know what's going on, don't you."

"No, I don't."

"You think you do. I can smell it on you, Sandburg, so just tell me already."

"I think it's me. My subconscious or unconscious, I always get those confused."

"Some psychologist."

"Well. Undergraduate minor, okay? But I think it's all the changes. Freaking me out. I think the door, it's like an opportunity. Or a choice. I don't know. Just a thought."

"No, it's a good thought. But who called me? Why was your locker vandalized? It's gotta be connected, doesn't it?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

They sat on the couch, Jim rubbing his eyebrow as he thought, Blair curling his toes trying to get warm. Finally, Jim pinched his nose and said, "I'll make some coffee; you want some?"

"Tea. And you should have tea, too."

"Do you want some eggs?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'll cook. You make the tea." And so they had an early breakfast; what the hell, it was Saturday. They could nap.

* * *

"So you think it's a poltergeist."

The dishes were done, a pot of decaf dripping, but it was still dark out. Jim was yawning when he asked Sandburg that.

"I never said poltergeist."

"You said unconscious. Sub. Whatever. That's a poltergeist, right?"

Blair stared at him. "I thought poltergeists were an adolescent phenomenon. Oh shut up," he said sourly when Jim started to snicker and then laugh. "Jesus, you're the adolescent in this relationship."

"What relationship? And you are. You're like *twelve*, dude."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you."

That cracked Blair up, too, so they sat at the kitchen table trying not to spill their tea as they laughed. "Okay, so, you know, you may be right. It's psychic energy emanating from my anxiety about, about, uh, school and everything that happened."

Both men sobered at that. "Yeah, Blair, you know, I think that's it. I mean, I never believed in poltergeists, but there was that ghost, and the senses, and I just think it's really possible. I think it's you. I think," he paused prudently, "I think the door means you're looking for a way out of this situation."

"No way, man. This is what I want." Blair said that quickly and passionately. "Don't even go there."

Jim studied him for a long moment. His heart rate was up slightly; he still smelled a little like sleep and a lot like ginger-lemon tea and eggs and butter; he needed a shave. "Then what's your explanation?"

"I need to go through the door. I need to, uh, *embrace* the new stuff. I've been holding back."

"Oh, fuck, Sandburg, you have not."

"Yeah, actually I have. I don't pay attention in all my classes, and I still miss Rainier."

"I'm gonna hit you in five seconds. Go shave and think up some better line to feed me."

"No, man, it's true, kinda, well, okay, I could, yeah." He stood up, and in a few minutes Jim heard water running and the shoosh of shaving gel. Then from the bathroom, Blair said quietly, "I don't want out, okay?"

"Okay," he said just as quietly. Gladly.

"I'm telling Simon," Jim told Blair when he emerged from the bathroom. Blair nodded, and flopped onto the couch, picking up the remote.

"Whatever. Then I wanna get out for a while. You wanna go down to Fourth Street, just walk?"

Jim nodded and reached for the phone. "Let me call this in."

* * *

Fourth Street was one of my favorite places in Cascade. It was kinda touristy, I suppose, but it had a nice feel. Nice ambiance. Lots of funky little shops, specialty stationery, perfumes, music, clothes made in third world countries with buttons from naturally-dropped rainforest wood, a couple microbrewery outlets, and a dozen or so coffee houses. My favorite was Cascade Coffee, a place Sandburg had introduced me to. It was basically a long narrow room, with distressed red brick walls. They served the best coffee: rich and dark without any burnt taste. The wait staff were all young students and a show in themselves. Lots of piercings, tattoos, mehndi, odd shoes, and clothes out of the seventies. Blair was well known and well liked there; nobody seemed to remember or care about the dissertation disaster. And they tolerated me just fine; I could even come in by myself and be greeted with a smile.

It occurred to me that most men my age wouldn't know what mehndi was.

We wandered down the tree-lined street. I enjoyed the details of the cobblestones and all the flowers in redwood planters. There were some pretty girls showing off their slender bodies near the big fountain; we stopped to admire them silently. I snuck a glance at my partner, who was smiling fondly but not vibrating the way he used to around an attractive female. I think he's growing up. A little.

Simon had listened carefully as I reported the strange occurrences of the past week. He's seen enough weird shit not to judge too quickly. While Blair and I were out walking, he was doing some researching on Blair's classmates at the academy, in case one of them had a grudge against my neo-hippie punk.

I'd done a lot of shitty things to Blair in the years we'd been together. I'd ignored him, made jokes at his expense, turned my back on him when he needed a friend. But he'd never been less than a friend to me, a good friend, my best friend. Better than Simon, in some ways, because Simon would've clocked me if I'd discounted his ideas the way I had discounted Blair's at times. And Simon was my boss. It's hard to be best friends with your boss; there's always some secret you can't reveal, for fear he'll have to act the supervisor. I love Simon like a brother. I don't know what I love Blair like.

He looked up at me expectantly, and we moved on, leaving the music of the falling water and girls' laughter behind us. There were thin clouds overhead, but occasionally a little sun would pop through, startling me with the brilliance of the world it revealed. I put my hand on Blair's shoulder as we strolled, and heard him sigh. A pleasant sound, on a pleasant day.

Not that it was perfect. Some of the kids at the fountain and along the street looked -- not right. Too thin, too blank faced. Some of the body ornamentation disturbed me; it spoke of dark rituals and secret ceremonies. And there were old guys, bearded and smelly, hunched against the planters. Some staring straight ahead, some asking for money. One guy about my age and height caught my eye; he was breathing rapidly through his mouth and I could hear thick congestion in his lungs and his heart beating unevenly. "It was in the orange juice, man, in the oj, every fucking morning, in the oj, but they wouldn't believe me, believe me, man, believe me . . . " I looked away hastily to discover Sandburg watching me. He calmly held out a dollar to the man, who coughed thickly through his open mouth, but took the money without acknowledgment. Sandburg tugged at my light jacket, and I started moving again.

"Coulda been me," I muttered to him, remembering how frightened I'd been when we first met. He didn't contradict me, just hitched himself a little closer. I was embarrassed for a moment, to be walking in public so near another man, my hand on his shoulder, but fuck it. Half the people we knew and most of the people we didn't already assumed we were lovers; nothing we'd do could change their minds. I moved my hand across his neck to his other shoulder, and we walked like that to Cascade Coffee.

I already knew I wanted a triple grande latte. With Sandburg here, it'd have to be decaf, but he'd probably let me have some pastry in consolation.

He had to finish the order for me because my cell rang. I stepped out of line to answer; it was Simon. By the time Blair had captured a small, rocky table and ferried the coffees to it, I was ready to grab sweetener and napkins and start in.

"There was a call that night," I said without preamble; he nodded. "From a stolen cell phone. The address she gave doesn't exist, but Terence Etheridge is still around. Turns out he's back at Rainier. And an anthro major." Blair raised his eyebrows, but didn't speak. I took another sip and tried to get comfortable in the wrought iron chair. Usually, we managed a booth, but there weren't many and on a nice Saturday, they were at a premium. "Wanna go talk to him?"

"Simon would let you?" Now I raised my eyebrows. Sandburg laughed, that high-pitched raucous laugh that always captures attention. "Well, if you're gonna go, I better go with you. Someone's gotta keep you on a leash." Oh, man, he'd pay for that.

* * *

Blair let Jim handle Etheridge. He was a big, good-looking guy, built like a football player, a noseguard maybe, almost as tall as Jim but with another hundred pounds of muscle on him. He had longish blond hair and warm brown eyes. He looked like half of Blair's students, when he'd taught at Rainier. He steadfastly denied knowing anything about the phone call or caring about Blair. "No offense, man," he said earnestly, his forehead creasing, "but I really don't know too much about what happened. I was off that semester, on, uh, probation, 'cause of some other stuff, and I didn't really pay attention." His gaze focused a bit. "You lied, right?"

Blair blushed; he could feel the heat rise from his throat right up his face and into his scalp. Even his ears felt hot. He remembered how angry he'd been at Etheridge for plagiarizing that paper; now he stood before his former student an even greater fraud. Jim put a big hand on his shoulder and said, "We're not here about that. We just want to know why someone would use your name like that."

Etheridge shook his head and blushed as well. "I, uh, got my own reputation," he said thickly. "I did some really stupid things, you know, jokes, but." He shrugged. "People know the name, you know?"

Jim nodded, and Blair thought he did know. People just know your name and then use you. That had happened to Jim, because of Blair's dissertation, and it was worth being embarrassed by enormous ex-jocks to protect him from that ever again.

"Thanks, Mr. Etheridge. Let me know if you hear anything."

Etheridge nodded and stood up. Someone had taught him manners in the past, even if he'd fallen away from that for a while. As Blair stepped outside and slipped on his sunglasses, Etheridge said, "You know, there was something. I mean, probably not, but my roommate's cousin is at the police academy right now. He once asked me if I ever had a class with you."

Jim calmly asked Etheridge from his roommate's cousin's name, which he couldn't remember, so they trooped back inside and waited while Etheridge called his roommate and got the information. Blair didn't recognize the name.

"What do you think it means?" he asked once they were back in the truck heading to a new taqueria Jim wanted to try. El Capitan, on Seventh and Snohomish.

"I think it means that somebody doesn't like you."

"Everybody likes me." Jim gave him an even look before turning his attention back to the traffic. "Well, once they get to know me."

"You said you didn't know this guy. So. He hasn't had the pleasure." Blair smiled and shook his head.

"What're you gonna do?"

"Nothing." Jim turned the truck into the parking lot and shut off the engine. "Tell Simon. Let him look into it." At Blair's look he said, "Really. Come on, I'm not that much of a loose canon." Blair rolled his eyes and slid out of the pickup. "Am I? Chief?"

Seated, peering over a menu, Blair asked, "So you're thinking this cousin scratched my locker? And called? But why? I mean, I can kind of understand the locker thing," he blushed a little but continued, "but why the call? Why get you out of the house? And what does that have to do with the, um, sleep thing?"

"Thing. Jesus, you have advanced degrees and your vocabulary diminishes daily." Slapping his menu down, Jim waved at the waitress. "Super burrito. Chicken," he added quickly, "with extra sour cream and guacamole. A Dos Equis dark."

"Veggie burrito with no sour cream. Dos Equis dark." When the waitress walked away, Blair said, "Do you seriously believe that having chicken instead of beef makes up for the extra guacamole? Do you know how much fat is in an avocado?"

"Come on, Chief. Cut me some slack; it's Saturday. So what do you think about the uh, sleep thingy."

"Vocabulary," Blair whispered, but said aloud, "I still think it's psychosomatic. I don't know about a poltergeist, but some weird energy. I wish Naomi were here; she'd know what to do."

"Burn sage," Jim said darkly, watching the waitress bring their beers. "Maybe you should call her, though. She might have an idea. Shit, Sandburg, if you need to burn sage, do it. Just give me a heads up, okay?"

"Okay."

And burn sage he did, that very afternoon, after sending Jim out for groceries. He carried the bundle from room to room, even up into Jim's bedroom, making sure the rooms were evenly smoked. He meditated as he waved the bundle, focusing on the relaxed feeling he'd enjoyed that morning walking down Fourth Street with Jim. When he was through, he lit three candles his mom had sent him for meditation and sat lotus until Jim returned.

Who was surprisingly uncomplaining as they unpacked the groceries together. He even put on an old Melissa Etheridge cd, Yes I Am, explaining that Terence Etheridge's name had reminded him how much he liked her music. Especially "Resist."

Blair listened thoughtfully to the lyrics, puzzling over their meaning to Jim. Such a bleak song. Maybe his return from Peru, or the divorce from Carolyn. Or maybe his life-long feelings of being the outsider, the freak. He studied his friend, feeling again the affection he held for Jim. He was a good man who'd been through some bad, bad times and come out on the other side. A good friend.

* * *

"Okay. Okay, sleep down here, wreck your back, I don't care." Sandburg stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door. My head was aching from our argument. Jesus, he was a feisty guy. I heard somebody refer to him as a baby cop a few days ago. They didn't know I could hear them, of course; they'd been two floors down and in the men's room, but it pissed the hell out of me. Sandburg wasn't a baby anything, and he had to know that. I guess me wanting to stay downstairs with him was too much, though.

The only alternative I could come up with was to have him sleep upstairs. In my bed. When the shower shut off, I got up and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Jesus, James, I know privacy isn't really a concept you're familiar with anymore, but couldn't we at least have the *illusion* that you don't know every time I fart?"

"Sandburg." My voice was sharper than I'd intended it, but it got him to open the door. He looked as sulky as a teenager, if not for the heavy beard and laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. "Look. I'm not, uh, impugning your manhood or anything. I just, it's just important to me. You're important to me, okay? So let me. Fuss. A little." He looked a little less irritated at that. "You can sleep in the loft, okay? And I'll sleep on the futon. One night won't kill me, and it's better than the couch, right?"

He shook his head, his wet hair flopping into his face. I wondered idly if he'd grow it out again when he was out of the academy. "Yeah. I, actually I really appreciate what you're doing, Jim. I'm sorry I got a little short with you." That cracked me up and I couldn't help the undignified snort I made. "Height jokes? Man, that's *beneath* you," he said, laughing too.

"Yeah, I'm *above* all that," I said, laughing harder.

"And I'm in *over my head*." Now we were both howling, with relief more than anything, I suppose. I smacked him lightly on the stomach and went back to the couch where I'd been reading before getting involved in this ridiculous argument.

"How many times have you read that book?"

"Kerouac? I've read everything he published. There's new stuff coming out all the time, though."

"He looks like you. On the cover, with the cat? I think he looks like you."

"Well, since he'd be thirty years older, I think I look like him. But yeah, I've been told that before." I looked down at the book in my hands, its paperback cover soft from years of being held. "I like the cat, too," I said softly.

Sandburg came away from the bathroom door, still combing his hair, and leaned his knees against the arm of the couch. "Too bad you're allergic." I nodded. "I'd like a cat. You know. If we ever could."

I looked up at him, standing there in his boxers, a towel draped around his shoulders. He's a hairy guy, pretty clearly a man these days and not a kid anymore. I realized yet again that he was the most important person in my life, ever. As Sandburg would say, evereverever. Then he jerked the comb through a tangle and water sprayed over me and the book. "Hey, Junior. Knock it off." He grinned and went back to the bathroom, leaving me to dab at the water spots.

So he slept in my bed. I didn't even change the sheets for him; I wanted him to roll around in my scent, have it rub off on him. I figured in the morning, I'd sniff to my heart's content. A little underhanded, I know, but not too terrible.

That night, he woke me, crying out in his sleep, deep moans and quick inhalations. He mumbled something, maybe "shit," and then groaned as if in pain. I quickly looked around the loft, but everything was fine, so I shot up the stairs.

He was having a nightmare; I could almost feel it roll off his skin, like sweat. I could almost smell it, dark and sour. I knelt on the bed and put my hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently and calling his name. "Blair, Blair. Wake up, buddy." He jerked away, his eyes moving rapidly under his lids. "Blair!" I shook him again, more firmly, and his eyes popped open.

"Shit, shit," he whispered, and to my distress tears filled his eyes. "Oh, Jesus, Jim." I didn't know what to do. Eventually, I sat on the bed, rested one knee on it and twisted so I could face him. He was gasping for breath and rubbing his eyes. I patted his chest and then started rubbing circles on it.

"It's okay. Just a bad dream. Do you remember it?"

He shook his head, and shivered. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. "Okay. Come on, sit up." Groaning again, he let me pull him up. He wiped his face again and sniffed. "Tell me."

He sighed and looked up at me. "It's just a fucking *dream*," he said with some asperity. "Goddammit. I'm just freaked about leaving Rainier and going to the academy. It's just a dream."

Impulsively, I hugged him, and he immediately hugged me back. "It's okay, Blair," I told him. "We figured that's what it was. It's okay to be upset. It's been a rough year. Don't beat yourself up, okay?"

"Fuck it, Jim, don't go all big brother on me, okay? You don't do it well." That really hurt my feelings and I pulled away in shock. "Wait, wait," he said, grabbing at my arms. "That came out all wrong. You're a great big brother. It's just." He rolled his head back; I could hear his bones crack. "You're right, you were right all along. It was just a nightmare, because I feel so bad about what happened. I fucked up your life, I fucked up Naomi's, and Simon's, and mine. I just feel so *bad*."

And the pain in that last word was too much for me. I put my arms around him again and snugged him up close against my body. He came willingly enough that I knew he really wasn't mad at me. I held him for a long time, until I felt confident I could speak again. "Listen to me. You didn't fuck up anybody's life or anything. Bad things happened. If it's anybody's fault, it's that publisher's; what he did was unconscionable. And you certainly didn't fuck up my life.

"You did a really brave thing. I don't know another human being with the courage and integrity that you have. If that's what these nightmares are about, you can stop it any time. Everything's okay, Blair. It was all meant to be. You're supposed to be my partner, my Guide, and my Shaman, and since I'm a cop, that means you have to be one, too. Okay?"

He nodded his head against my shoulder, then turned so he faced my neck. I could feel his breath against my skin. Over his bent head, I could see the clock: two-thirty. The absolute dead of night. I rested my check against his forehead. We sat there for a long time; I watched the digital clock flip silently through the night. Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven.

Finally, he sighed deeply and moved a bit, so I lifted my head and pulled back. He looked sleepy again. I felt a powerful urge to stay with him; my eyes were closing of their own accord. The stairs seemed too long a hike. So I let him go and curled myself into my own bed, the sheets now smelling of Blair. He pushed a pillow toward me, and we settled down.

Well, I've shared tents with him, slept in the truck with him, fallen asleep on the couch and woken up with my head on his shoulder; this was just another step. But I rolled over so I could watch him; I knew it was too dark for him to see me, but even in the dim light, I could see every feature of his well-known face. He was relaxing into sleep, and I watched him pull away from me and recede into his dreams. I hoped they'd be good ones.

* * *

It was still dark when I woke again, and Blair was gone. I knew immediately I was in another dream; it was as though I were swimming through molasses. Every move was slow and heavy. I sat up and peered over the railings, down into the apartment, but couldn't see him. I struggled out of bed and down the stairs, clinging to the railing as if I were ninety. The apartment looked different. Only when I reached his room did I realize what was wrong: he was gone.

Blair's bedroom was a storeroom, heaped with dusty boxes and unused exercise equipment. No futon, no desk, no bookcase. My heart was jerking wildly in my chest; it's just a dream, just a dream, justadream.

Behind me, someone started pounding heavily on the front door. The booms reverberated through the apartment, and I hastily turned down that dial. My heart rate shot up again. This was it, I felt, as I turned toward the door. Again I struggled through the thickened air, as if pulling each foot out of something sticky. I wanted Blair to be on the other side of that door. I wanted Blair. I realized that: I wanted Blair.

Who doesn't occasionally wonder about their friends? I don't believe people when they say they've never had a sexual thought about a same-sex friend; it just isn't possible not to wonder once in a while. So I admit that I'd thought about Blair. Who wouldn't? He's a handsome man, intelligent, a lot of fun to be with, the perfect partner. Really, the only partner I've been able to stand for any length of time.

The pounding stopped when I reached the door. As I stretched out my hand, I saw the bolt slide back and the lock on the doorknob rotate itself open. Then the knob twisted and the door popped open with a tiny whuff of air. I stood back and watched as it slowly opened. I caught a scent of something -- dark and sweet and very familiar.

But there was nothing on the other side. No one in the hall way. Just as for Blair, there was nothing there. Then I remembered what we'd said: doors are for going through. Somehow, stepping out into the hall way seemed too difficult. My head throbbed; it felt full of some liquid that sloshed painfully when I moved. My feet seemed to be stuck to the familiar floor. I put a hand on the door for support and leaned forward. I tried to call his name, but there was only silence.

Then I pushed as hard as I could and fell forward, my length sprawled across the floor, with my head and shoulders over the threshold I was as out as I could get.

The sun was brilliant, blinding me for an instant. I put my hand up to shade my eyes and saw that I was on Fourth Street. Blair was at my side, smiling up at me. We walked in slow motion, his hair shining with red highlights. The water from the fountain fell gracefully, glinting in the morning sun. The homeless man Blair had given a dollar to was still there, watching us. His eyes followed me, and I realized he resembled me because he was me, he was me without Blair. This was who I'd become: homeless, desperate, talking to myself in the midst of affluence and great beauty. "Believe me, believe me," he whispered to me as we passed him. "They wouldn't believe me, he believed me, believe me." My head twisted as we walked passed him; our eyes met as he implored me. "I believe you," I said softly, and turned to lay my arm across Blair's shoulders.

But he was gone again. I stopped and tried to turn around, but the world was moving ever more slowly, grinding to a halt, my feet wouldn't move, I couldn't lift my hands, my words had been silenced, and I was alone.

When I woke up, I was on the floor of the apartment, almost in the same place and position I'd found Blair earlier this week. My head was killing me, but I sat up quickly and peered into his room. Exactly as it should be: futon, desk, and bookcase. Relief filled me like helium, and I pushed myself off the floor and headed toward the stairs. I heard a little noise, though, and looked up to see Blair watching me through the railings. I smiled. "Hey." I don't think he ever looked better than he did just then, with bed hair and sleep in his eyes and a big smile for me while he waited for me in my bed.

* * *

Blair rubbed his eyes, rolling the grit out of them, as Jim climbed the stairs. He felt unaccountably pleased this morning. Maybe it was the unusual sight of sun pouring down through the skylight above him, warming the room a tawny gold. Or maybe it was the fact that he was in Jim's bed and Jim was coming to him. When Jim stood next to the bed, he had a similar grin on his face. Blair flipped the covers down and wiggled his eyebrows in what he hoped was a seductive manner. Jim laughed and climbed in, reaching for him.

They lay together, their arms around each other, and stared into each other's eyes. Finally, Blair said, "This is pretty cool."

"Yup."

"I think we could get even cooler."

"Ya think?"

"Yup."

"How so?"

"I think you can guess." They laughed again, and Blair leaned on his elbow a bit, to put his face next to Jim's. He gently rubbed his nose and lips against Jim, who like a well-trained animal rubbed back, drawing Blair closer to him. Then Blair tilted his head and licked Jim's lips, which opened instantly beneath him. And then they kissed.

For like an hour.

And when they were through kissing, they were breathless and excited and aflame with desires neither of them had been sure they possessed just a few minutes prior. Blair gently rolled Jim onto his back and slung his leg over Jim's hips and put his hands down on either side of Jim's head. "I love you," he whispered, and Jim whispered back, "I believe you, I believe you," and then they kissed again, not, apparently, through at all.

Just when they were about to become more intimate, the phone at the side of the bed rang. Blair flopped onto his back muttering, "Shit," while Jim tried to catch his breath before he answered.

"Ellison.

"Yeah.

"Thanks, Simon. I'll tell him. Yeah. See you Monday."

Jim looked at Blair, lying splayed out in the bed and eyeing him back closely. "Etheridge's roommate's cousin admitted to the vandalism and the prank. His dad's a cop I used to work with and pissed off years ago. I guess he thought he was getting back for him. I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?"

"The guy wouldn't have hassled you except for me."

"Oh, fuck, Jim, he'd've hassled me for anything. It was just an excuse to hassle me. Get real. You know what those people are like."

"Those people. That's real PC."

"Yeah, so says Mr. PC."

"Bite me."

Blair grinned at him enormously. "Okay." And then he did.

Later, when they were eating Jim's favorite lunch of tomato soup, Blair said, "What about the knocking and stuff."

Jim stopped with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth and thought. He put the spoon back down and sat back, rubbing his foot against Blair's under the table. "I love you," he said for the first time. Blair blushed. "It's important you know that, Blair. I think the dreams, at least my dreams, were about that. I think they were pushing me to know that. To let myself know that.

"I think your dreams maybe were the same. But I don't know. Hell, you minored in psych."

Blair reached out and took Jim's hand. "I think you're right. I couldn't really accept my new life. I kept thinking it *wasn't* a new life, but really, it is. I was wrong; I'm really *not* in Kansas anymore. I'm not that tenured student. I'm a cop, or almost one. In my entire life, I never once dreamed that this is were I'd end up. But it's still a dream come true." He blushed again, and Jim smiled with tender affection. He half-stood up and leaned across the table to kiss Blair's warm, soupy mouth.

"Let me in," he whispered, and spilt his soup. But he didn't mind, and neither did Blair.


End file.
